


Sky Burial

by Acanthus_Addams



Series: The Chronicles of Yharnam [1]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25015153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acanthus_Addams/pseuds/Acanthus_Addams
Summary: Sprawled on the steps of the Grand Cathedral, a once great warrior shares her final thoughts in the waking world.
Series: The Chronicles of Yharnam [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906141
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Sky Burial

Sky Burial

The night had been long indeed. Exactly how long, she could not say. For who could at this point? Yharnam had had need of her work for decades, that much she knew – her aching old body was a cruel testament to that. The city had seen better days, to put it mildly, but Eileen knew she had fulfilled her duty admirably. And as nebulous as time was in this world of blood, beasts, dreams and unseen horrors, time, it seemed, had finally caught up to her.

Thus, here she was. Bloodied and bruised in the middle of the Cathedral Ward, by the hand of that treacherous Cainhurst bastard, no less. A pitiful way to go, really; at her age, did she not know better than to bite off more than she could chew? Yet, her oath demanded she take the plunge, time after time, never once wavering or holding back. Such was the undying mandate she had sworn allegiance to: the lone, terrible responsibility of the Hunter of Hunters.

To kill one's own brethren. A lifetime spent in pursuit of such an honourless task, no matter how necessary. Her resolve had always been her primary talent in this unforgiving plane of existence, and where lesser members of the cause would lose themselves completely, the crowfeather assassin remained unscathed, shielded by an unbreakable will and determination to forever do what was needed of her. The bloodlust of the hunt was a very real adversary in this endless night, one more fierce and unforgiving than any beast she had ever encountered. Countless hunters had fallen victim to its tantalising allure, becoming more of a danger as a result than the beast scourge itself, and she, the Hunter of Hunters, the shadow-dwelling restorer of balance, was there every time to cut them down. It was never easy, no matter how much the years had dulled her empathy. Perhaps, then, despite the job being far from over, it was something of a mercy that never again would a fellow hunter, often a friend, feel the cold bite of her blade sending them on their way.

She looked down at the weapon, an old ally in such a thankless profession. The blade of mercy, it was called, evidently by someone with good intentions but such woeful naïvety to go with it. Its siderite edge was still razor sharp, which was to be expected of a mineral said to be from the heavens. How many people had been ended by this very piece, she wondered? Far too many to count, albeit less and less in recent years. Of course, that was no fault of the blade. Rather, to her shame, its deteriorating wielder. This life extracted a heavy toll, and only now, in her sorry, broken state, did she truly see the extent of it.

The clutches of the Old Blood reached ever outwards, ensnaring more and more with each passing day. Yharnam's townsfolk were reduced to a mere handful, not counting the hordes of mindless, partially transformed scourge-bearers roaming the streets. The prey had outnumbered the predator a hundred to one, yet still she soared headlong into the fray with the zeal and conviction of her youth. Quite foolishly, as it turned out. For she was tired now, crippled by year after year of saving blood-drunk hunters from insanity and frenzy. Even so, never would she have expected herself, as long as she had breath in her body and fire in her chest, to pass the mantle on to another.

This person had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. A new hunter, and an outsider, of all people. They stood little chance against the beast plague (or, so she thought), and she thoroughly expected her solemn duties to include them before the night was through. Needless to say, that was before she had seen them in action, and their assistance in dealing with old Henryk, the latest to go mad from the hunt, proved to be, quite literally, a lifesaver. The poor sod Gascoigne must have gone the same way, she deduced, and she knew then, despite keeping them at arm's length, that this was no ordinary hunter.

"No more dreams for me," she had told them just moments ago, at the foot of the cathedral. "This is my last chance." No longer was she tethered to the oft-soothing, oft-purgatorial Hunter's Dream; no longer could she swoop unendingly into battle without even the fear of death to obstruct her vital warpath. The blanket of comfort that deathlessness provided had been stripped away long ago. It was by her own choosing, though, she vaguely recalled…or was it? Gehrman, the keeper of the dream, had freed her from the cycle as an apparent 'merciful' act. Sometimes she wondered about that, while other times it remained a haze. She could never be sure just how long ago all of this was, after all.

This life was, indeed, her last, and if this was to be her end, how bloody typical that it would be so…unceremonious. Not that someone in her line of work yearned for anything more elaborate. The hunter had seen to her mark, to both her embarrassment and gratitude, putting a welcome end to that vile snake the world now knew as the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst. She only wished she could have been there to watch her bloodthirsty former comrade breathe his last. It was then that she decided her mysterious new associate was ready. The Caryll rune she had been entrusted with many decades ago, symbol of the Hunters of Hunters and their morbid pledge, was now theirs, gladly given in her final hour to this worthy successor. For she trusted them with the burden that she simply lacked the strength to bear herself anymore; to resist the beckoning finger of the bloodlust and extinguish those who succumb to it; to be an ever-present lesson lurking in the shadows to survivors tempted by the intoxicating blood; to be unyielding, incorruptible, absolute, eternal…

Eileen the Crow craned her neck to the sky. The red moon hung low, and the once animalistic soundscape of twilight Yharnam had turned decidedly more otherworldly. How she wished she had the energy to take off this wretched mask to see the waking world with her naked eye. It weighed heavily on her old bones these days, and the incense in its elongated beak had long since dried out. Her crow-like feathered cloak she could do with shedding, too. But no matter. It was quiet here, peaceful, if a little draughty. In any case, it had certainly been a while since she had seen the night progress this far. Perhaps the newest to bear her title would actually be the one to bring an end to this drawn-out nightmare once and for all. She had faith that they would.

"Daft old bugger," she laughed to herself. Her eyes grew heavy now, and the surroundings began to blur into indistinct blotches. "This is a young woman's game. Yer best be getting some shuteye, now."

She had done her best, and her successor's triumphs would be the gallant continuation of her legacy. Those were things she could rest easy knowing. Not that she was quite ready to go just yet. Death would not take her so easily; she just needed to rest her eyes for a minute…maybe two…


End file.
